


Making Concessions

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Follow the North Star [33]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-31 00:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “Fuck it, pass the vodka,” Harry says.“That a good idea?” Roman asks.“Nope,” Harry says. “But I’m bored.”





	Making Concessions

No exaggeration, this is possibly the most awkward Harry’s felt in his entire life, and there is a lot of competition for that prestigious honor.

There are only so many places to look in a hotel room when you can’t look at the other occupants, and the problem with hotel rooms is that everything you _can_ look at is generic — white comforter, black matte furniture, some vaguely abstract pictures of flowers. Harry thinks they’re flowers, at least. Abstract and all. He spends a good two minutes examining one, but still can’t decide.

No one’s saying a thing, except when Roman says, “Give it up,” the fifth time Harry tries the door and once again just confirms they’re stuck. He’s pretty sure Evan and Roman are both doing the ‘look at everything but each other’ thing too, because he doesn’t get that feeling that someone’s looking at him, and every time he takes a peek Evan’s staring at his hands, or his knees, or whatever, and Roman’s looking out the window, which isn’t any more interesting than the room itself, given that the window faces the parking lot.

When the silence reaches completely unbearable, Harry talks. Last defense and all that.

“This has got to be an actual crime, right?” Harry asks. “Locking people in a room?”

“I seem to recall you all trespassing in Fitzy’s bushes last season,” Roman says.

“Okay, yes, maybe,” Harry says. “But this is a whole ‘nother level of crime. And going to stakeout Fitzy’s place was Victor’s idea.”

“Yeah, I’m planning on an intervention for Victor when we get out of here,” Roman says.

“Can I be the one whose job is to yell at him until he cracks?” Harry asks, and Roman grins at him, Harry grinning back for a second before he remembers who he’s grinning at.

Harry swallows. “How long they planning on keeping this up?” he asks, cutting his eyes away.

“Until tomorrow morning, according to Fitzgerald,” Roman says.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Harry says. “What, is this a starvation campaign too?” 

“I hardly think we’re going to star—” Roman starts, but Harry’s already made it to the door.

“I’m hungry, jackass,” Harry says, pounding on it.

It’s quiet, like maybe they’ve been abandoned — holy fuck does Harry hope there isn’t a fire or something — before Val says “Victor put sandwiches in the fridge! And power bars and fruit in drawers!”

“You too, Val?” Harry asks, feeling betrayed. He figured, considering all the clandestine talks Victor and Val were doing, but confirmation sucks.

“Sorry!” Val says. He doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“Well,” Roman says, opening the fridge and pulling out sandwiches. “Got to give Victor credit where it’s due. He really thought this through.”

“That isn’t terrifying to you?” Harry asks.

“Didn’t say it wasn’t,” Roman says. “Impressive, though. You like salami?”

“Sure,” Harry says, then catches the sandwich Roman throws him underhand.

“Connie, ham okay?” Roman asks. “Or turkey. Whichever you’d prefer. There’s two of everything, if you want salami.”

“Anything’s fine,” Evan says quietly, the first thing he’s said for at least half an hour, maybe longer. It definitely felt longer, but time tends to stretch out a little when you have nothing to do but pay attention to it passing.

“He likes turkey,” Harry says, weirdly proud he knows that. Less weirdly proud he knows that and Roman doesn’t. 

“Anything’s fine, really,” Evan says, but Roman hands him the turkey one.

“Got any water in there?” Harry asks.

“Nah, but there’s Gatorade and OJ,” Roman says. “And uh. A couple bottles of vodka.”

“Vodka,” Harry repeats, and when Roman just nods, goes to investigate. It’s not dinky mini bottles like some hotel rooms have but legit full size bottles crammed on the lower shelf. “The fuck’s he doing providing alcohol to a minor?”

He looks over at Evan, who’s picking the tomato off his sandwich instead of protesting, which was the entire reason he made the comment. He _hates_ this.

“Can I have your tomato, Ev?” he asks, and pretends it’s not just so Evan will acknowledge him.

“Of course,” Evan says, finally looking up, and Harry transfers them to his sandwich. It throws off the ratios, but whatever. They eat their sandwiches, they drink their Gatorade, and no one says a fucking word. Roman usually never shuts up. Evan doesn’t either, once you get him started. But fucking nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Did Harry mention he hates this?

“So,” Harry says. “You guys back together, or what?” It’s almost easy to forget that he literally fucking asked Roman for that, with how pissed he is right now. He knows it’s stupid. He knows he’s being a dick. He’s never been particularly good at avoiding that before, though, so why start now?

“No,” Roman says, and Evan’s stricken response to that is all the answer Harry needs to how Evan feels about that. You’d think he’d be upset, seeing that look on Evan’s face, and he is, but it’s on Evan’s behalf. Fuck Roman if he doesn’t want him. And apparently fuck Roman if he _does_ want him. It’s very confusing in Harry’s head right now.

“Why not?” Harry asks.

“Fuck’s sake, Chalmers,” Roman says.

“Seriously,” Harry says. “I mean, what, it’s totally fine to fuck—” he remembers, suddenly, his conversation with Roman the other night, that they haven’t. “— I’m pretty damn sure I walked in on you making out,” he amends. “So what, he’s good enough for that but not good enough—”

“Go fuck yourself,” Roman snaps.

“I’m not the one fucking toying—” Harry snaps back.

“Stop it,” Evan says, quieter than either of them, but louder than he usually is.

“I’m just trying to understand, Novak,” Harry says. “It might not be me you’re jerking around, but it’s kind of relevant to my life when my fucking boyfriend—” 

“I’m not jerking him—” Roman interrupts.

“Can we please stop talking?” Evan says loudly. Harry would keep going, but he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, looks like it too, when Harry glances over.

“Sure,” Harry says. “Sure, babe.” Who the fuck cares if Roman hears it.

They settle back to that miserable silence, Evan curled up at the top of his bed, fiddling with the edge of a pillow case, Roman sorting through the drawers to see what Victor left them, Harry alternately looking at that — they’ve got enough for days, even with their high caloric needs, and Victor remains terrifying — and glaring at the back of Roman’s neck. 

He lasts maybe twenty minutes before he breaks, and that’s probably a generous estimate.

“Fuck it, pass the vodka,” Harry says. 

“That a good idea?” Roman asks.

“Nope,” Harry says. “But I’m bored.” Victor stole the remote, along with Evan’s laptop, so they can’t even watch TV or a movie or anything to pass the time, stuck trying not to look at each other, and since talking didn’t work so well last time, they have fuck all else to do.

Nobody passes him the vodka, so Harry gets it himself, grabs some orange juice while he’s at it, because he’s not at the level of drinking from the bottle. Give it another hour of awkward silence and he might get there, though.

“Ev?” Harry offers. He expects a no, but Evan gets this look on his face, like he’s reached the same point as Harry. The ‘fuck it’s silent, but it’s there. 

“I’ll get cups,” Evan says, and disappears into the bathroom.

Roman sighs. Loudly.

“You got a better idea?” Harry asks.

“Other than _not_ day drinking?” Roman says.

“What else are we supposed to do?” Harry asks. If they’re there until morning, that’s a lot of hours to kill, and he’s already fucking worried about bed assignments. No one’s sleeping in a chair, not with a game tomorrow. Maybe Evan in one, Harry and Roman in the other, so it doesn’t end up in an argument. Harry swallows. They’re double beds and Roman’s a fucking tank. Harry would probably fall right off the edge if he tried to avoid contact.

Roman shrugs a little, defeated seeming, but he shakes his head when Evan offers him one of the fragile plastic cups the hotel provides them with, gives them a look that better not be fucking judgmental when Harry pours himself a couple ounces, then Evan, giving himself a splash of orange juice and Evan more. Evan doesn’t like liquor. Harry doesn’t much like vodka himself, but orange juice is limited, and after that all they’ve got is water or blue Gatorade to kill it, so it’s best to be moderate about it.

He sits on the edge of what’s presumably Victor’s bed, leaving the vodka on the bedside table. If Evan hadn’t tucked his feet up to sit cross-legged, their legs would touch. Apparently Harry has regressed to the Victorian era, because he silently wills it, over and over, and exhales all at once when Evan drops them to add a little more orange juice to his cup, calf brushing Harry’s knee. Harry wants to give Roman a look, something triumphant and toothy, but Roman probably can’t even see their legs, the way his chair’s angled, and considering Roman presumably had his tongue in Evan’s mouth this morning, it’s a pretty objectively stupid thing to feel victorious about.

Eventually Evan pulls his leg away, and Harry focuses mostly on trying not to grimace at the almost antiseptic taste of his drink, though feels totally free to grimace at Roman, who’s got his chin on his hand, watching them, the corners of his ample mouth turned down. 

“It’s fucking awkward,” Harry says, halfway through his first cup of vaguely orange flavored vodka, “You sitting here and judging us while we drink. Doesn’t that get boring?”

“Someone here has to keep their head on straight,” Roman says.

“Why?” Harry asks.

“Because—” Roman says, then sighs again, even more loudly and dramatically, when Evan scoots down the bed to pass him the bottle. “Et tu, Evan?”

That joke’s so worn in Harry could recite Evan’s answer: moi aussi, Roman. 

“It’s boring,” Evan says instead. “When other people are drinking and you aren’t.”

Harry bets he knows that one from experience. He started out that way, rookie year, even though he was actually legal in his province, if not most of the places they were playing, so Harry doubts he was drinking much when he was underage, especially under his parents’ or billet family’s roof.

“Boring is the last thing I’m worried about,” Roman mutters, but he ends up taking a swig from the bottle, not even bothering to mix it with something more civilized.

Harry ends up switching to Evan’s bed once it becomes clear they’re all drinking, forming this cooperative little triangle handing the bottle off whenever they need a top-up, or, in the case of Roman, another swig, still straight from the bottle, which is disgusting, but. Harry knows where his mouth’s been, and he’s kissed that mouth too, if not recently. He wants to. Keeps getting caught up on it, the dark plush of his mouth in the fading light of the room, bottom lip a little wet. He doesn’t know if it’d taste astringent, like the vodka, or tart like the orange juice. He’s definitely drinking the majority of the OJ, but that’s fine. Harry doesn’t hate blue Gatorade, but Evan does.

Harry wouldn’t have to move far to taste him. Evan’s sitting closer to Harry than he has since Roman ended things last week, their arms brushing when he takes a sip of his screwdriver. Harry sees Roman notice that, and Evan does too, he guesses, because he scoots a couple inches away.

“Connie, you can sit with your boyfriend, fuck,” Roman says.

“Which one?” Harry says, before he can stop himself.

“We’re not—” Roman says, then looks at Evan. “Connie already said he didn’t want to talk about this.”

“With me there, yeah,” Harry says, and sees Evan wince. “But honestly, it seems like something you two need to figure out, so. Want me to head to the bathroom and plug my ears or something? I mean, as long as you don’t start making out again, I guess I could--”

“It wasn’t about you being there,” Evan says. “I mean, it’s about you as much as me and Roman.”

Roman glares at Evan then, Evan ducking his head, and wow. Like, yeah, probably sucks being reminded Harry’s probably a hovering presence over what they have as much as Roman’s been to Harry, but that’s no fucking reason to glare at Evan.

“That’s not what I meant,” Evan says softly. “I wouldn’t—”

“You’ve completely lost me,” Harry says, but Roman’s face has settled back into something approaching neutral, so he doesn’t think it was meant for him at all. Good. Great. Swapping spit and swapping secrets and Harry’s on the outside looking in.

“Gotta piss,” Harry says.

“You don’t have to—” Evan says.

“I actually do,” Harry says, and does, but he takes his time washing his hands. His face is flushed, unattractively blotchy, in the mirror. It’s how his parents caught him drinking when he was a teenager. Face literally betrayed him. Annie got in more shit for providing it than Harry did for drinking it, though. Bad influence big sister.

He really wishes he had his phone right now, could call her. Of course, if he had his phone right now he wouldn’t be stuck here. 

Harry didn’t bother to gel his hair today, day off and all, and it’s a mess, curls springing in every direction. He needs a haircut. He needs some gel, and there’s a bottle of it right by the sink, but he can’t imagine anything more pathetic than coming back from the bathroom with freshly gelled hair. He runs a wet hand through it instead, which helps a bit.

Evan and Roman are both quiet when he comes back out.

“My turn,” Roman says, standing, and Harry doesn’t think he’s imagining how red Roman’s face is. Could be the drinking — Evan’s flushed too, but he’s been like that awhile, Harry thinks — but Harry doesn’t think so, doesn’t think Roman’s ever been the type.

“What was that about?” Harry asks. It doesn’t come out nearly as casually as he was aiming for.

Evan doesn’t bother lying. He’s pretty awful at it anyway. “Sorry, I can’t—” 

“I get it,” Harry says, and maybe it comes out too flat, because Evan looks upset. “Seriously, I don’t want — not your thing to tell, I get it.”

Evan gives him a half smile, and Harry leans over to kiss him on the cheek, the flush warm under his skin, before grabbing his drink and sitting down beside him. Evan’s fingers brush his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

“For what?” Harry asks.

“I didn’t mean—” Evan says, frowning down at his drink. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

Harry doesn’t bother with platitudes. They won’t help, Evan won’t believe him, and he’s never been much for them anyway.

“I know,” he says, instead, because he does, then tries not to be hurt that Evan pulls his hand away when the door of the bathroom opens, but doesn’t quite manage it.

“Revolving door,” Roman comments, when Evan gets up with a quiet, ‘excuse me’. He settles for a cup, finally, but Harry thinks that’s more just for something to do, because he doesn’t bother to cut the vodka with anything. Harry looks at his back as he pours, since fuck knows there’s nothing else interesting in this room, the way his shirt pulls at the shoulders, cuts into his bicep. He’s got a tattoo on one of them, black ink that Harry’s never gotten a close look at. He’s a little surprised, considering the kind of guy he is, that he hasn’t gone around showing it off to everyone, telling them what it is, making them admire it or at least pretend to. Sam does that, and every time Harry sees him he seems to have another ugly ass one for Harry to not even bother pretending to admire. Nothing against tattoos, Sam’s are just stupid. Roman’s probably is too.

Roman catches him looking, goes red like before, and for some reason Harry feels as flustered as Roman looks. No one likes getting caught, he guesses. 

“Not like there’s anything else to look at,” Harry says, then because that sounds — he doesn’t know, like he’s not just looking but _looking_. “I was trying to figure out your tattoo.”

“My brother’s name,” Roman says, after a second of silence that drags.

“Your _brother’s_?” Harry asks. Fuck knows you wouldn’t see Harry tattooing his sibling’s names, not even Annie’s.

“He died when I was fifteen,” Roman says. And of course. Of course you don’t go around tattooing your sibling’s name unless they’re gone.

“Shit,” Harry says. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Roman shrugs a little. “Was a long time ago,” he mumbles.

“What’re you talking about?” Evan asks cautiously when he comes back, and Harry can’t even imagine how suspicious they look, Roman with a flat line to his mouth Harry can’t blame him for, Harry mortified and likely looking like a tomato.

“My brother,” Roman says. 

“Oh,” Evan says softly, like he knows. Which, of course he does. Why wouldn’t he know. Roman is — was? — dating him, and he followed Roman around rookie year like he was attached by a string.

“Sorry,” Harry repeats.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Roman says, but that silence descends upon them again, sticky, like humid air.

“Truth or dare,” Harry says.

“No!” Evan says, over Roman’s snort.

“You got a better idea, you tell me,” Harry says, flopping back on the bed. His head knocks Evan’s bony hip, and Evan brushes a curl back from his forehead before dropping his hand. “Because drinking in awkward silence sucks.”

“I dunno,” Roman says. “Seems to work better for us than talking.”

“True enough,” Harry says. 

“Truth,” Evan says after a moment.

Harry squints up at him.

 _Which one of us would you pick if you had to?_ is right there, could settle everything in one word, but Harry doesn’t want to know the answer. Or, he does, he just. He doesn’t want to know if it’s not him.

He considers.

“We may have all night, but that doesn’t mean you have to take it,” Roman says, and Harry lifts a hand to lazily give him the finger.

“If you had to choose,” Harry says, and he can feel Evan’s leg tense beside him. “Would you play for the Oilers or the Panthers for the rest of your career?”

“Don’t be cruel to the kid,” Roman says, and with that the tension breaks, just a little. It’s kind of like how the muggy heat breaks right as a storm rolls its way in. Harry hopes that isn’t going to be a metaphor.

Evan considers. “Edmonton,” he says finally. “Because at least I wouldn’t have to live in the States.”

“Hey,” Roman says, just as Harry sits up indignantly, and Evan looks at them wide-eyed for a moment before he starts to giggle.


End file.
